


Come Home With Me

by grahamhannah53



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Based on a Fall Out Boy Song, Drunk Grantaire, F/M, Fights, Happy Ending, Songfic, Unrequited Love, angry jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the Fourth of July, the day they met....<br/>no judge pls</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home With Me

_“It was the Fourth of July_

_You and I were fire, fire, fireworks_

_That went off too soon.”_

            Montparnasse had never been one for going out and being around people, especially on holidays, where everything was either all hustle and bustle or so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat, but there he was, on the Fourth of July, in a bar that played classic rock gold all night every night. He wasn’t exactly sure what brought him there—even though it was one of his more common stomping grounds, he didn’t usually go unless he had a meeting with a client or an appointment with the bottom of a bottle. Tonight was different. He stood there alone, sipping at his beer, nodding along to the song that was playing. He was (as usual) dressed to the nines, his black leather jacket over his t-shirt, and his designer jeans over his leather boots. After all, what was the point of owning nice clothes if one didn’t make any appearances in them? Not that there was anyone much to impress—any decent person would be partying with friends and family at some barbeque, and, usually, so would he. Brujon had offered to host, and everyone else was going. Montparnasse declined. In favor of what? Being alone? The idea sounded strange even to Montparnasse.

            He had just convinced himself to leave when a girl walked in that piqued his interest. She wasn’t anything special that he could tell—she was a short, thin little thing, brunette and very ill-dressed, though, by the way her hair was fixed, Montparnasse figured it wasn’t by choice. But there was something about her that caught his eye. There was something in the way she carried herself that made her seem fairy-like, almost as though she were less than self-aware. It was very interesting. When she stood next to him at the bar, he turned to stare shamelessly, as he had never been one for very much social subtility. She wasn’t really his type, but he could admire her still, couldn’t he?

            What he wasn’t expecting was her to comment.

            “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”

            As surprising as it was to receive such a quip, Montparnasse just smirked, with only the thought of what a fun game this had the potential to be. “I bet that if you knew who I was, you wouldn’t sass me like that, you little firecracker.”

            She fixed him with a playfully deadly look. “Oh, I see that you are under the assumption that I actually care who you are. Well, let me tell you, mister, I’ll be no more afraid of you for having known your name than for having known your eye color. Should I be?”

            Montparnasse grinned wolfishly. “Should you be afraid of me? Definitely.”

            She quirked a brow. “And how often is it, do you think, that people like us do as they should?”

            “People like us?”

            “I think you’d find we have more in common than you think.”

            Montparnasse shook his head. “You don’t know me, kid.”

            She shrugged, looking away. It was clear that she meant to ignore him, even after she had ordered her drink. That wasn’t going to happen. _No one_ ignored Montparnasse, no one.

            “So what’s your name?”

            “Eponine,” she replied without looking at him. That was irritating.

            “You gonna ask for mine?” he asked, a little put off, though his voice didn’t show it.

            “Nope,” she popped the ‘p’ casually, still not looking at him.

            “Montparnasse.”

            She smirked into her drink. “Can I call you Monty?”

            Montparnasse scowled. “No.”

            “Why not? It’s easier.”           

            “Because it sounds stupid,” he grumbled.

            “I think I have heard your name before. From my friends,” she replied thoughtfully, looking over at him, finally.

            He snorted. “If you heard my name from your friends, you’re hanging out with the wrong people, sweetheart.”

            “Oh? What makes you think I’m so squeaky clean?” the danger in her eyes sent something down Montparnasse’s spine, and it felt _good_.

            “Come home with me,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

            Eponine snorted. “You’re cute.”

            “I know. So come home with me.”  Montparnasse had a lifelong habit of picking a line of thought and sticking to it.

            “Wow, egotistical much? No thanks, I have a little brother to watch tonight.”

            In the line of business Montparnasse was in, it was very valuable to be able to tell if someone is lying or not. He could see the big fat one Eponine just told him from a mile away. “Liar. You wouldn’t be here if you did.”

            “No is still no.”

            “I bet we have the same music taste,” he mused, thinking about the song (Hot Blooded by Foreigner) playing in the background.

            The _are-you-completely-off-your-rocker_ look she gave him was hilarious. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, old man.”

            “I assure you, I am completely sober,” he smirked.

            “Is your place clean?”

            Montparnasse raised a brow. “What kind of clean?”

            “ _Clean,_ clean, you idiot. Like, do you sweep, mop, dust, that kind of thing?”

            Montparnasse snorted. “Of course. Do I look like someone who wouldn’t?”

            “Yes.”

            “Ouch.”

            “Let’s leave,” she sighed, adjusting the strap of her purse.

            “Now?” _That was an unexpected twist_ , he thought.

            “Look, you were the one who asked, and if you’re retracting that--”

            “No, no, I was just asking. Let’s roll, babe. You mind if I smoke?”

            “Not at all.”

            Montparnasse had a feeling that this was going to be fun.

 

 

***

 

 

_“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it_

_I just got too lonely, lonely_

_In between being young and being right_

_You were my Versailles at night”_

           

            “Six months, ‘Parnasse! You let me feel this for _six freaking months_ , and you didn’t feel the need to let me know that my feelings weren’t reciprocated?”

            Montparnasse shrugged, those brilliant, icy blue eyes nonchalant. “’Ponine, we had regular sex. It isn’t anything more. It never was. From the start, you knew that.”

            The brunette threw her hands up in the air. “Yeah, _before_ you asked me to move in with you! We _live together,_ ‘Parnasse. You and my brother are best friends! Gavroche _adores_ you. You are his idol, his role model, though I don’t know how well that will turn out for him. We do _everything_ together; you even go to the Musain with me to Enjolras’ meetings, even though you hate them.”

            That was all true. He _did_ ask Eponine to move in—it was easier for both of them. Montparnasse was a man with needs, and Eponine needed to be away from home. It worked out just fine—mutually beneficial. He loved that little punk Gavroche, too. He would make a fine protégé in Montparnasse’s line of work. He had all the right qualities. And Montparnasse _did_ hate those meetings, with all that poetic talk about civil justice. He and Eponine would fight after every meeting, but the make-up sex was incredible, so he continued to attend with her. 

            “So?” he replied, not seeing how any of this was relevant.

            “But, I thought…” her voice began to crack as she trailed off.

            Montparnasse regarded her, leaning against the wall. “I never said I loved you.”

            “I realize that now,” her voice was flat as she began to pack her things. “You are worse than Marius ever was. At least he didn’t _lead me on_.”

            Montparnasse shrugged. “I’m better dressed, better looking, my taste in music is better, _and_ I have more money. I’m not really concerned about pansy-pants.”

            “You cruel, horrible bastard.”

            He shrugged again. “’S what I’m known for.”

            “Yeah? Well screw you, ‘Parnasse. Have a nice life. If I left anything, throw it away. I don’t want you anywhere near me ever again.”

            “See you,” he said, salting her mockingly, and she left, slamming the door so hard that it shook the entire apartment.

            _Oh well,_ he thought. _She’ll be back. She probably left half of her shit here anyway._

***

 

 

_“I said I’d never miss you_

_But I guess you never know.”_

            She wasn’t back. Three weeks, and Eponine had Thenardier had made herself scarce for all of them. Montparnasse didn’t really think much of it. The apartment was just…quiet. Of course, Gavroche still visited, but it wasn’t the same as having a constant companion. Speaking of Gavroche, Montparnasse had determined that the little punk was going to make a fine criminal one day, if Montparnasse had anything to do with it—which he did. In fact, if he hadn’t had a job tonight, he would have been teaching Gav the tricks of the trade. But no. Some poor idiot pissed off someone rich enough to hire Montparnasse to discreetly dispose of him.

            He remembered Eponine’s calm acceptance of his occupation. He remembered how, on nights like these, when he came home, sometimes the job having gone a little sour, with blood all over his clothes, he’d find a little one-person cookie on a saucer with a note by it on the table, nothing written but ‘xoxo’ and a smiley face.  Before she came along, he hadn’t known that hydrogen peroxide got bloodstains out of clothes. It had definitely saved him some money—he kept having to replace clothes that could’ve been salvaged.

            He put those thoughts out of his mind as he snapped a magazine into his gun and slung it over his shoulder. He wished he had the recipe for that cookie.

 

 

***

 

 

_“And all my thoughts of you_

_They heat or cool the room”_

            “Jesus, what’s wrong with you recently, Montparnasse?” Babet asked, concern written all over his face. “I know your default expression is a scowl, but you’re never like this.”

            “I’m just a little grouchy today,” Montparnasse replied, fixing his friend with a look that said _don’t question it_.

            Babet, as a rule, never listened to facial expressions. “No. I mean, you’ve been this way for weeks. You just _glare_ for no reason, and I swear the room will get ten degrees hotter. Or colder, depending on the nature of the glare. C’mon, you can tell me.”

            “Babet, do me a favor and stop talking.”

            Babet shrugged. “Whatever you say, man.”

            They had met for dinner at the Musain to discuss future business ventures, but Montparnasse had quickly found the atmosphere very disagreeable—in fact, as soon as he could smell _her_ perfume, he had wanted to leave. (He gave up using her name months ago. It always put him in a foul mood). He hadn’t realized how lonely life would be without someone to come home to. Even had he realized that, he wouldn’t have realized that who the someone was would matter. But there was an emptiness in his life that only she could fill, and he hadn’t quite been able to admit it to himself just yet since she left.

            After sitting for a while in blissful silence, his numbness was interrupted by the entrance of the group of schoolboy fools that Eponine hung out with—the ones who thought that their little club could somehow miraculously change the world. They came out from the back room where they met, Eponine coming out first, followed by the cynical drunkard of the group (the most agreeable of them all, in Montparnasse’s opinion), who met his gaze and lifted his glass to him with a drunken chuckle before gulping some more down. He almost gave off the air that, even drunk, he knew something that Montparnasse didn’t, which was irritating. Immediately following the drunk was the golden-haired leader, whom Montparnasse had taken to calling Sneezy, since the first time he had introduced himself, Montparnasse had said “Gesundheit”, thinking that he had sneezed. Sneezy was glaring daggers at Montparnasse, and wasted no time in making his way over to the table where he sat.

            “Montparnasse,” the revolutionary began, but Montparnasse interrupted him

            “Hi Sneezy.”

            Sneezy’s eye twitched. “Stay away from Eponine.”

            Montparnasse wrinkled his nose, an awful thought popping into his head. “ _Please_ tell me _you’re_ not the rebound.”  

            “No I’m not,” Sneezy snarled. (Ha, alliteration). “I’m her friend. She’s a part of Les Amis, and I have a duty to her as the leader of the group and as her friend to make sure harm doesn’t come her way. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave her be. I don’t know what your intentions were for coming here tonight, and I won’t pretend to care. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t come back.”

            “Or what?” Montparnasse smirked. “You’ll talk me to death?”

            “Bahorel already wants to kill you. Even Jehan wants to get a slap in—congrats, by the way, on being the first and only person on the planet that Jehan wants to cause physical harm to.”

            _Jehan? He couldn’t step on a flower petal without crying,_ he thought.

            “Thanks. But you should know that I can and will do _whatever the hell that I want_. And if I want to be here? Where, that’s damn well where I’ll be.”

            “You heard what I said. Consider this your warning.”

            With that, Sneezy was gone, and Montparnasse just lit a cigarette as Babet watched him wordlessly.

 

 

***

 

 

_“I wish I’d known how much you loved me_

_I wish I cared enough to know_

_I’m sorry every song’s about you_

_The torture of small talk with someone you used to know”_

            Montparnasse threw the notebook across the room.

            He had never been so angry at an inanimate object before in his life. A stupid, pink, _sparkly_ notebook had ripped open the heart he never thought he had. His chest literally ached, his mouth had gone dry, and his heart rate was probably ridiculously high.

 _I worry for him so much,_ she had written, _What if he doesn’t come home from this one? Oh hell. What am I thinking? Of course he’ll come back. He always does. Right? He’d better. If he dies, I’m going to rip him a new one._

_Diary, he’s so good for me. He makes me whole and happy. I’m so glad that I’m finally worthy of loving and being loved. It’s the greatest feeling in the world._

If only Montparnasse had realized… if only he’d known! A year ago, if someone would have told him that he’d be in love, he’d have laughed and punched them in the kidney. And now, not only was he in love, but he had a broken heart from the deepest pits of hell, and he had no one to blame but himself.

            He used to be able to write music in his spare time—nothing much, just some guitar chords and a few silly lyrics to sing when he and his buddies were drunk out of their minds. Now he could barely find the motivation to do so, and when he tried, all he got were dissonant chords, bittersweet melodies and lyrics that were so depressing that he scoffed at himself. It was all _her_ fault too.

            “The hell are you staring at, asswipe?” he asked the notebook, glaring at it as though it had personally offended him. Instead of waiting for it to answer back, he grabbed the bottle of vodka that he was saving for a rainy day and began to drink right from it.

~

            About an hour later, Montparnasse, even in his drunken state, was still plagued with thoughts of _her_ , and, after brief consideration, he decided _not_ to light himself a cigarette. With the amount of alcohol he had consumed, doing anything with fire was ill-advised. Instead, to still the jitters in his fingers, he pulled out his phone and began to (attempt to) text Eponine.

**To: Ep**

**_Hepk, bsbe o love yuo_ ** ****

            His phone buzzed with a reply ridiculously fast.

**From: Ep**

**_Montparnasse?_ **

****

**To: Ep**

**_Elpoknine babt I lobe yuo._ **

****

**From: Ep**

**_You’re drunk. Wow. Go to bed, ‘Parnasse._ **

****

**To: Ep**

**_Poinen_ **

****

**From: Ep**

**_If you can’t type, we can’t talk. Sleep it off, Monty._ **

****

Unfortunately for Montparnasse, the world got a lot fuzzier, and he blacked out before he could reply.

 

 

***

 

 

_“My 9 to 5 is cutting open old scars_

_Again and again ‘til I’m stuck in your head_

_Had my doubts but I let them out_

_You are the drought_

_And I’m the holy water you’ve been without”_

            “Eponine, I have a knife open”

            The brunette gripped his hand all the tighter. “Montparnasse, you’re a better man than this. Please, Monty, I _know_ these people, I know Valjean, I know Cossette. Wait, _you_ know Cossette! They’re good people, innocent people. Don’t do this—you’ve nothing to gain.”

            “Shouldn’t you be pleading with your daddy dearest?” was the only thing Montparnasse could manage to say, because she was _there,_ right in front of him, touching his wrist and looking into his eyes and it was still embarrassing for him to think of his drunk texts that he had sent her two months ago. He was having a mental overload, and being cruel was his default defense barrier.

            Eponine, using her charm like only she knew how, raked her eyes over his features. “Am I not?”

            _Shit._ That was almost too much for him to take without falling over. Almost. “I meant your _real_ dad.”

            “He’s dead to me and you know it.”

            “Right here,” Thenardier grumbled.

            Eponine ignored him, focusing all the force of her chocolate-colored eyes on Montparnasse. “Please, Montparnasse.”

            “And what if I don’t care _how_ many times you say please? What if my answer is still no?” he snapped.

            “Then I’ll scream.” _There_ was that spark, that steely determination that could make even Montparnasse star-struck. “I’ll wake everyone for the next _mile_. You’ll all rot in jail for so long that when you get out, there’ll be flying cars. Don’t you _dare_ think I won’t do it. And you _know_ what happens to pretty boys in prison.”

            _It rhymes with ‘grape’,_ Montparnasse thought, remembering the quote from Eponine’s favorite movie (21 Jump Street). 

            “No you won’t, darling daughter,” Thenardier said, his voice falsely warm. “Because if you do, I will shoot you.” He aimed his pistol right at her head.

            Montparnasse drew his gun with his right hand (the knife being in his left) and pointed it straight at Thenardier’s head. “Now, I want you to rethink that nice and carefully,” Montparnasse replied with steel behind his words.

            “I wouldn’t, Montparnasse,” Babet said, pointing _his_ gun at Montparnasse. Claquesous pointed his gun at Eponine, who just rolled her eyes and shifted closer to Montparnasse, who gently reminded her of the knife again. Guelemer and Brujon promptly chose their side as well, and Montparnasse bit back a curse.

            “Eponine,” Montparnasse was close enough to whisper, and feeling her name on his lips after so long was both painful and elating. “Now would be a good time to change your mind so none of us have to get shot.”

            “I’d rather we all die than any harm come to Cossette and her father.”

            “Damn it, ‘Ponine,” he growled, shoving her behind him and fired five shots with deadly aim. Montparnasse had always been quick, but this was inhuman. All five were dead, their filthy souls making their way to hell.

            “Hey, Ep are you oka—oh.”

            When he’d turned around, Eponine had disappeared, leaving behind what Montparnasse could only assume was her blood on the very tip of his knife. Unable to control his rage, he cursed and screamed and kicked the bodies of his friends and accomplices like a man gone mad. Had anyone witnessed him leaving the scene, even they wouldn’t have heard him murmuring lowly under his breath.

            “I told her to be careful, that I had a knife open, that stupid girl.”

 

 

***

 

 

_“I’ll be as honest as you let me_

_I miss your early morning company_

_If you get me_

_You’re my favorite ‘what if’_

_You’re my best ‘I’ll never know’”_

            “Montparnasse, I warned you not to come here.”

            Montparnasse rolled his eyes, despite the blue fury in the other man’s eyes. “Oh shut up, Sneezy, I’m not here to screw up your little meeting.”

            “We _know_ what you’re here for,” the smallest guy in the room stood up, flowers in his hair and fire in his eyes. Montparnasse recognized him as Jehan, the poet. The shorter man walked right up to him and slapped him across the jaw. “And we’re not going to stand for it.”

            Montparnasse sighed heavily. “I am only letting you live because you are so _very_ fashionable, and because I _definitely_ deserved that.” He left out the ‘because you’re adorable’ part. What the kid didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

            Jehan nodded in agreement. “You certainly did.”

            “You need to walk out of this room right now, or so help me God, I will shoot you.”

            “Enjolras,” Eponine grabbed Sneezy’s arm lightly.

            “He _cut_ you, Eponine!” he exclaimed.

            “And if you’d have let me finish, you’d know that he saved my life,” she said. “As well, as yours, Cossette, and your father’s.”

            Cossette’s eyes grew wide, and Montparnasse couldn't help but smirk. _Damn straight,_ he thought, _I’m the hero of this story book._

            Eponine, without further ado, related the events of the night before, artfully dancing around Montparnasse’s involvement in the job. Occasionally, her eyes would flit to him, but when she found him staring back at her, she looked away.

            “So thank you,” she concluded, nodding at him. “I owe you one.”

            “You don’t owe me anything,” Montparnasse muttered, casting his eyes on the ground.

            “Well, this is a wonderful development,” Sneezy began, “But, since I’m awfully disappointed that I didn’t get to shoot you, and you’re interrupting my meeting, take care of your business and leave.”

            “Ep, can I talk to you outside? Alone?” Montparnasse asked warily.

            She nodded, following him out of the Musain.

            “I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of his mouth.

            Eponine gave him a look. “What for?”

            “I love you.”

            Once the words were out, there was an almost ridiculous release of tension in Montparnasse’s shoulders, as though he had been bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

            “ _Excuse me?_ ”

            Montparnasse cleared his throat. “I said, I love you.”

            “You’re joking, this has got to be a joke,” she said, almost to herself. “All these months, and he just now decides that he loves me.”

            “’Ponine…”

            “I have been through hell!” she yelled, out of the blue, eyes aflame. “And, all of a sudden, you _love_ me?”

            “Okay, look, Eponine, before now, before _you_ , I didn’t have a clue about love, and sometimes, I’m still not sure how it all works. I didn’t know I _had_ a heart before you,” he confessed uneasily. “But I _do_ know that I hurt when you are gone. I know that I killed four of my friends for you yesterday, as well as a client. I know that without you, my life has been stale and void and miserable. ‘Ponine, I have never felt regret before in my _life_ , but there’s not another word for how I feel when I remember the last fight we had. I hurt you, and I can’t take it back.” He paused to take a breath. “And I know, better than anyone, that I don’t have a right to ask anything of you, but I have always been a selfish bastard, so I am going to anyway. If you won’t take me back, which is completely understandable, can you at least make me one of those cookies that you used to make me and give me the recipe?”

            Had it been any other circumstance, the look on her face would have been priceless. Her eyebrows drew together, her mouth was slightly parted, and she looked completely ridiculous. But this was not any other circumstance, and Montparnasse couldn't find it within himself to laugh.

            When she had composed herself, Eponine sighed and looked away from him. “I’ve never heard you say you’re sorry before.”

            “Eponine,” he trapped her hand between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting her head up so that he could look into those dark, lovely eyes that he had never realized were quite so rich and shiny. “Do you still love me?”

            “Always.”

            “Then come back to me.”

            She looked away, moving only her eyes. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

            “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?” he asked, brows drawn together, unsure as to why the idea was any less than stellar.

            “Because you could hurt me again,” she replied softly.

            “But I won’t,” he insisted.

            “I can’t know that.”

            “Sure you can. Come home with me.”

            “What? No! We haven’t even made up properly, and… just… no!”

            “Then kiss me.”

            “Monty— ”

            “Or do you want me to kiss you? Because either way, it will turn out the same.”

            “Oh to hell with it,” Eponine sighed, throwing her arms around him and pulling him into a bruising kiss.

            They were all lips, tongues, and teeth. The kiss was anything but gentle, but something about it felt like home, and Montparnasse knew that he could never kiss anyone else like this ever again. He threaded his fingers through dark hair, enjoying the silky feel of it, even though he felt a little frantic, as though the world might end before he was able to rememorize how to best make Eponine’s knees turn to jelly. He moved his lips to her neck, making her sigh in the most _delicious_ way. He had to ask again…

            “Come home with me.”

            “Yes.” 

 

 

 

 


End file.
